


Giant

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and appearances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giant

He comes to her office tonight instead of her going to his, settles his big body into her almost too-small armchair, drinks tea instead of wine. That's the way it is — tea with her, wine with him, without deviation, without change. One night in her parlor, one in his pantry. She takes off her shoes, he unknots his tie. She removes her keys, he pockets his cuff-links.

While they are waiting for the kettle to boil, he absently browses on her desk. Carson has always done this and sometimes earns himself a sharp rap of the knuckles, but usually she doesn't mind. She doesn't understand it, but she lets him pick things up, put them down, examine them. It goes along with buttling, she supposes, this need to turn objects over in his hands, understand them. He's exceedingly careful with her possessions, handles her most delicate possessions with tender fingers — her little figurines, her pictures.

"What's this, then?"

Elsie glances at him to see what he's referring to, and grins. It's a child's picture book, one she had found in the charity sale for the hospital for a pence. The book had caught her eye — for more than one reason — and she thought it might be a nice addition to the nursery. It was almost brand new, after all, and she's bought the child nothing since her arrival and a little gift from the housekeeper was overdue. His brow wrinkles as he pages through it.

"It's a picture book, Mr. Carson, you can see that."

He pages through it with a frown and she has to bite back laughter at his growing scowl; she had known he'd disapprove and if she's honest that's half the reason she bought it. The other half being, of course, that it's more or less about him.

"The Smartly Dressed Giant?"

The kettle signals its readiness and she carefully pours the boiling water into the teapot and makes a little noncommittal sound, amused by the scornful noises he's making as he quickly reads through what little text there is.

"Well, I can't say I agree with much of this at all."

Elsie hands him a cup and takes the book away, hugs it to her chest, plants her tongue firmly in cheek. "Surely you do, Mr. Carson. After all, the moral of the story is quite nice — don't judge others by their outward appearances. Surely you can't find fault with that."

He blows gently across his steaming tea. "Clothes, Mrs. Hughes, make the man. Surely you can't find fault with  _that_."

Elsie rolls her eyes, more out of habit than actual response, and curls into her chair, takes up her cup. Looks at him in the soft lamplight, watches how he stretches out his long legs, arches his back just a little to relax the lumbar, rolls his big shoulders in the confines of all that livery. She sips her too-hot drink, swallows. Swallows again.

That's the devil of it, she thinks. In his case, in some strange way, the clothes are an integral part of the man because they spell out exactly what he is, who he is, in all of the hidden seams and stitched lines. The perfectly pressed trousers, the stiffly starched collar. The pristine shirtfront, the immaculately straight cuff. All of that sharpness, all of those angles, but when you touched him — as she sometimes does, the accidental bump of a hand, the fleeting brush of fingertips — there was softness, smoothness. The silk of the tie, the brushed cotton of the jacket.

She never lets her thoughts wander, she never allows herself to think about what lies beneath all of those barriers. Just concentrates on the gleam of a chain, the sparkle of a stud.

Doesn't think about how she wants to run her fingertips over a wide expanse of smooth, bare back. She does not stop to consider how the broad chest is cushioned with a softer, finer hair, similar but not the same, as the silver-grey waves that curl around his ears, his brow. It is not advisable for her to linger on thoughts of the soft stomach, the hard legs; most certainly she does not ever wonder about the length and weight of the sex hidden beneath the thick trousers.

Certainly she does not.

"I suppose, Mr. Carson, in some cases there might be something to that."

Elsie looks down at her lap, down into her teacup, down at her stocking feet. Looks down until she can look up again and contemplate only the turned lapel, the shined shoe, the glimmer of buttons.

"Sometimes."


End file.
